A Beautiful Murder
by NefarioussNess
Summary: Maybe it became easier to talk to Lydia because she was in on the secret. Maybe he was able to be more open with her because he knew that he had lost against Jackson for the end of time. The 'what if' that had always hovered somewhere in his mind regarding a romantic relationship with Lydia Martin had been permanently crushed. I'm OK with that, he thought, it's better this way.
1. It's Better This Way

He'd been genuinely enjoying those conversations with her. They would meet up at the one nice park Beacon Hills had to offer, sit down, and discuss the drastic changes that were threatening to consume their lives.

Lydia had many questions regarding werewolves, and Stiles was more than happy to provide her with the answers. Now that she was in on the secret, Stiles felt that an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't blame her for being angry at first.

"So all of this crap has been going on around me and nobody bothered to warn me about it?!" she had said testily. "It would've been _so_ nice if at least one person bothered to fill me in!"

It wasn't going to be easy having a werewolf for a boyfriend, Stiles knew that. It drove him insane at times having to deal with Scott being the Bite's 'Chosen One'. Well, that wasn't fair to say; Peter's attack that night in the woods had been completely random. Stiles shuddered when he remembered how 50/50 the Bite had been…

How it could've been him turning into a howling jerk-ass every full moon.

Speaking of Peter, that was the one of the things Lydia and Stiles had in common in this werewolf business. Besides being the only humans—and the only reliable researchers in the group—in on Beacon Hills' dirty little secret, they had also suffered at the hands of the former Alpha.

Some nights Stiles would wake up in a cold sweat, remembering the tragic end to his dream dance with Lydia. His nightmares seemed to be in high-definition, all-surround sound whenever they involved the lacrosse field, Lydia's bloodied form, and Peter Hale having her at his mercy.

Sometimes the nightmares would twist into a sickening new situation. Peter refusing to keep Lydia alive and tearing out her throat in front of Stiles' eyes, splattering him with her dark blood. Peter attacking Stiles instead, gnawing away at his soft flesh, ripping out the stringy tendons. Peter offering him a deal so disgusting—

_Stop,_ Stiles told himself, shutting out the horrifying imagery. He would blink, and the memory would be pushed back, and he would return to reality. Lydia was in front of him, pouting her glossy, full lips at him, an eyebrow cocked in impatience. Her beautiful face demanded more information from him, and Stiles was glad to give it to her.

Maybe it became easier to talk to Lydia because she was in on the secret. Maybe he was able to be more open with her because he knew that he had lost against Jackson for the end of time.

The 'what if' that had always hovered somewhere in his mind regarding a romantic relationship with Lydia Martin had been permanently crushed. _I'm OK with that,_ he thought, _it's better this way._

He knew that he was losing for the longest time, and Jackson and Lydia's temporary break-up had caused a false hope to manifest within Stiles. It was a cruel hope that his mind had used against him. Lydia's love confession to Dr. Connors Junior was like a mercy kill.

It was better this way.

This would allow him to move on. Hey, maybe gay guys could be attracted to him, if he gave it a shot. Stiles just didn't find other girls appealing, even as his romantic intentions for Lydia dulled over time.

It really _was _better this way.

At least Derek trusted Lydia more than Allison, though that wasn't saying much. She had brought back his sister's murderer, though Stiles argued that if an insane psychopath was mind raping his brain at every turn, he would do exactly what she did. Better to get the source of the craziness out than let it destroy you from within.

Derek Hale was not amused by that idea.

"Keep her under surveillance," Derek growled, "I don't need more trouble from you humans."

Stiles knew that he wanted to add _'female'_ within that last statement, but Stiles kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to deal with the sourwolf's trust issues with the opposite sex at the moment.

Lydia had scoffed when Stiles later told her what Derek had said. "Oh _believe_ me, I won't be performing anymore Voldemort-type resurrections as long as I'm kept up to date."

Stiles smiled in spite of himself. Lydia Martin making a _Harry Potter_ reference as a threat against Derek Hale? That was too awesome.

"And what's so funny, Stilinski?" Lydia hissed, but her grin took the mocking edge off of her words. Yes, it was definitely easier being her friend.

"Oh nothing," smiled Stiles, "I can just imagine the dumbfounded look on his face if he heard you say that."

"Your boyfriend doesn't scare me," Lydia pouted, batting her long lashes.

Once Lydia had learned Stiles' side of the story, she then realized how similar their so-called best friends were. Allison had been in on Scott's little secret all this time, and it frustrated Lydia how Allison had never bothered to tell her. It could have saved her a ton of grief during the last few months, what with the hallucinations and all. If Allison Argent thought that ignorance would be bliss in Lydia's case, then she was sorely mistaken.

At least Stiles had made the effort to try and talk to her during one of her breakdowns. _Try_ was the keyword; the hyperactive idiot couldn't be perfect, after all.

Lydia also knew how the popularity virus worked on people who were formerly nobodies in the background. She had seen it happen on many people during her years in high school. They didn't know how to control the incredible high of being noticed and respected by their peers. They went overboard. Sure, Lydia knew she wasn't a perfect angel at times, but at least her personality didn't go through a drastic change.

Scott McCall's status of being a werewolf seemed to have accelerated that process.

He'd narrowed his outlooks to things that kept him within the scope of popularity: lacrosse, and his girlfriend. This caused him to push out other things in his life, like an ugly cowbird budging out another bird's egg in order to make more room for itself in the nest.

Stiles seemed to be that egg. For some reason, this really pissed off Lydia.

So yeah, Scott and Allison were perfect for each other. Their thoughts were so singular, so absorbed in each other that Lydia wanted to gag herself with a spoon at times.

It was also nice to have someone else in on the werewolf secret that: (A) wasn't a werewolf, and (B) wasn't some crazy hunter from Allison's family.

"They thought that you had been turned, Lyd," Stiles once told her. "That night that you ran away from the hospital, I swear those freaks were estimating how much silver bullets they would need to take you out! I—we were freaking out!" Stiles seemed to flail his arms a lot whenever he recounted one of his stories.

He seemed very human when he acted like this. Not being some cold-hearted hunter or hormonal wolf-man with claws. Lydia actually felt touched that her disappearance that night had caused this big of a reaction out of someone.

Someone as perfectly human as Stiles.

Lydia worried about Jackson whenever he had to go out to the Hale house alone. She was annoyed that Derek "mopey Alpha" Hale had forbidden her from attending Jackson's werewolf lessons for the first couple of weeks. That's when her catch-up information sessions had started with Stiles.

Jackson had tried bringing her with him in his Porsche, and had tried to start a fight with the older werewolf when Derek told Lydia to get off of his property.

"Either she leaves or you'll never learn how to control your powers," Derek had said stubbornly. This was an ultimatum. Peter Hale was back, and was an experienced werewolf, but Jackson loved Lydia too much to go to _him_ for help. Jackson was stuck, and he knew it.

Stiles was there to stop the bloodbath before it even began. "Both of you, just stop before any of you dent up my Jeep!"

Derek had glared at him. "She can't be here," he growled.

"Fine," Stiles had snapped, and he looked over at both her and Jackson, a silent question on his face. Jackson seemed to understand, crossing his arms and reluctantly nodding.

Lydia understood immediately. "Wait, are you asking me to leave?!" she hissed at Jackson. Her boyfriend looked uncomfortable, and it made Lydia somewhat satisfied that this wasn't an easy decision for him. She may be pissed at him now, but in the long run, this was best for the both of them.

She wouldn't dream of jeopardizing his safety and the town's just because she wanted to be with him.

"Stiles, please," Jackson said. Lydia was surprised that he'd chosen Stiles Stilinski as her chauffeur off of the Hale property. Maybe it was because he was a human; he wouldn't be a threat to Lydia.

In more ways than one.

Stiles had opened the passenger side of his Jeep for her. Lydia had looked back at Jackson, and he watched her longingly as the Jeep door slammed shut.

"So, where do ya wanna go to cool off?" Stiles had asked her as he backed up and made his way onto the main road. "We could go get something to eat, or find rocks to lob at Sourwolf's head later on—"

"I need to know everything," Lydia interrupted, looking over at Stiles. She gave him her best determined and demanding look. Stiles sighed, and pulled off into a parking lot.

"Need some info to use as paycheck against Derek later on?" Stiles nodded fiercely, a small smile creeping across his face. "Yeah, yeah, that works. I like that. This is a very good plan. Shit, Derek's gonna kill me later, but whatever, you know?"

"Stiles, honey," said Lydia, her voice dangerously calm. "You can start right now."


	2. Wolfsbane

"I've seen this plant before."

Lydia held up a stem of the violet flowers between her thumb and forefinger, frowning slightly as she analyzed it. They were at the park again, sitting at one of the wooden picnic tables that seriously needed a new paint job. Stiles sat across from her, nodding his head and drumming his fingers lightly on the table's surface.

"Do you know what it's called?"

"I'm not stupid, Stiles," Lydia huffed, though she didn't seem mad. "It's wolfsbane." Her face paled, her eyes glazed over as her mind drifted off into a far-off memory.

It was the same flower that Peter Hale had given her in one of her too-real hallucinations.

She dropped the wolfsbane suddenly, and it spiraled down onto the table. Stiles eyes snapped up to her face in concern. "Lydia, are you OK?"

Lydia blinked, and she was surprised to find that tears have clung to her eyelashes. She was even more astounded by the guilty look on Stiles' face.

"Jesus, I'm sorry Lyd," Stiles stammered. "Oh God, I did not plan out this lesson-thing very well—"

Lydia reached across and grabbed Stiles by the hand, and found that it was trembling. It was also rough, an oxymoron to Lydia's well-lotioned, coconut-smelling soft ones.

"It's fine," Lydia said firmly. Stiles looked down at her hand touching his. Spots of color were forming in his cheeks, and he coughed.

Lydia retracted her hand, but not fast or anything; she wasn't insensitive. He looked afraid that she was giving him the wrong idea, which she wasn't. Sometimes a girl could forget that guys could get worked up for the emotional stuff as well. Most of them were just better at hiding it than their complimenting sex.

But Stiles' face could be pretty expressive most of the time. The outrageous arm flailing and severe twisting of limbs was exhaustingly entertaining.

The wolfsbane triggered a nightmare that night. At least she was asleep for this one, and not walking around in broad daylight with her peers giving her weird looks. Lydia was at least grateful for that.

But the dream felt so real and intense that she wasn't sure if it actually reality or not. The creaking, cold floorboards and chilly draft blowing past her exposed skin certainly felt real enough.

Lydia was in the Hale house in her pink, silky nightgown, walking down a long corridor. She shivered in the dainty attire as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She saw the grand staircase, and clutched the charred railing as she made her descent.

"Hello?" she softly called out as she hopped off the final step. She blinked, and then saw a thin stream of light coming from the left. It led down another corridor, and Lydia's mind felt hazy and dreamlike as she followed it.

Like a moth to a flame.

"Hello?" she repeated, but more loudly this time. The band of light was coming from under a door at the end of the hallway. Her feet ached as she picked up speed, nearly slamming her body against the warped woodwork. The doorknob squealed as she cautiously turned it open, and stepped inside the room.

Lydia suffocated a scream as her hands flew to her mouth.

The room was completely empty, except for the giant crucifix in the center of it. A limp body was in the front of it, its arms, torso, and ankles tied tightly with rough rope against it. As Lydia stepped closer, she nearly slipped on a sticky substance covering the floor. She stared down in horror: it was blood.

The body groaned, and Lydia cried in relief; they were still alive, whoever they were. But her heart dropped into her stomach as their head lolled upward, revealing their face.

It was Jackson.

The triskelion symbol had been carved into his bare chest, which was still bleeding and congealing along the cuts. Lydia's bottom lip trembled, and hot tears welled up in her eyes before streaming down her pale cheeks.

"Jackson?" she whispered. She raced over to his bleeding form, barely registering that long stems of wolfsbane loosely circled around him and the blasphemous cross. Jackson coughed, and blood spiraled from his mouth.

"Oh, Jackson!" Lydia sobbed, her fingers trembling as he reached for the knots. She tried untying the ones on his arms, but it was no use; it was like they were vacuumed sealed in place.

"Lydia?" Jackson groaned, eyes fluttering.

"Just wait for me baby," Lydia cried, looking around desperately for something, anything. "I'll get you down!" A knife would be useful right now.

"Looking for this?"

The blood froze in Lydia's veins. Her breath caught in her throat unexpectedly.

She knew that voice.

Slowly turning on her heel, Lydia braced herself for the confrontation she thought she never had to face ever again.

Peter Hale was leaned up against the wall, lazily holding up a large kitchen knife in his right hand. The other one was cupping his opposing elbow, and he was _smiling._

It was his younger version, the one she had met in her dreams. The same one that tricked her into visiting the ruined Hale home in the first place.

"Dear, sweet Lydia," Peter purred as he effortlessly pushed himself off the wall. Lydia stepped back, spreading out her arms in front of her.

"It's adorable that you think you can shield him from me," chuckled Peter, and Lydia watched in horror as his figure shifted, like heat waves on a scorching day. When he resettled his image, Peter was now his older, present self. He was clad in the red dress shirt and leather jacket, the same one from that fateful night on the lacrosse field. "You may be immune, dearest, but that doesn't mean you're invulnerable."

"Stay back," Lydia hissed, but her voice faltered as Peter stepped in front of her. He towered over her, his eyes narrowed, head cocked to one side. He raised the knife, its shiny, blood-drenched blade just inches from her face.

Oh God. That was_ Jackson's_ blood on there!

"What did you do to him?!" Lydia shrieked. A new onslaught of waves overcame her, but she held her ground.

"Lydia, run," Jackson said weakly from behind her.

"Yes Lydia," Peter sneered, grabbing Lydia's chin with his free hand. "Why won't you run?"

"Why did you do this to Jackson?" she whimpered. "Why do you have to ruin everything?"

Peter sighed, as if Lydia was acting like a stupid child that should've known the answer. "All my toys seem to break," he sighed longingly, "no matter how gentle I am with them. But there are many factors involved in this. The hunters, for one. Especially that disgusting bitch that started this whole tragedy. But my nephew also had a hand in our family's destruction, though indirectly, but he still counts. This cycle of blood and death and sacrifice has been going on for centuries, so there's that too."

_He really loved to hear himself talk,_ Lydia thought angrily. She had to get Jackson out of here. Mrs. McCall worked at the hospital; she would be able to help. Plus, she was in on the whole werewolf thing now.

"But I got off-topic," Peter continued wistfully. "All of this started within this very house," he added, gesturing at the room with the knife. "If it weren't for the fire, then I would never have to get revenge and turn some random, hormonal teenager in the woods. But Scott was never a willing pawn, even when I threatened his mother, so I had to find ones that were more… malleable."

"Lydia…" Jackson moaned. Lydia wrenched away from Peter's grasp, and spun around to face her bleeding boyfriend.

"Jackson, I'm going to save you," she whispered. Jackson winced in pain, but his eyes continued to plead with her. They were telling her to run.

Lydia shook her head. She was done playing the part of a selfish, airheaded blonde.

She needed to channel her inner Buffy.

"Stiles was the first one."

Lydia froze when she heard that name. She could sense Peter's smile, gloating at her hesitation.

"He had this spark," Peter growled, sliding his hand onto Lydia's shoulder. Lydia tried to shake him off, but Peter gripped tighter, and pulled her into his chest. The knife found its way at her throat, the flat of the bloodstained blade resting just above her collarbone.

"This beautiful spark, just waiting to become a full-fledged blaze," Peter drawled on, pulling Lydia away from Jackson. Lydia's heart skipped a beat when she noticed that Jackson was unconscious again. "But his potential remained untapped. That night I gave Scott the Bite, I was careless. I was so impatient to start a pack that I completely overlooked your friend. It's a shame that nobody has noticed the boy, and all of that hidden power. But he was useful to me in the end.

"And then there were you. So beautiful and immune to the Bite." Lydia shuddered as Peter's kissed the top of her head. "You were useful in your own way. And unlike most people, I don't throw out my toys after immediate use. I'll always need them later, so I carefully put them on the shelf until that day comes."

"What does Jackson have to do with this?" Lydia whispered.

Peter chuckled, and it was sinister and cruel. "Why, he'll be the most useful toy of my collection. The former kanima, and now such a handsome, powerful werewolf. I need him, as I need you and Stiles."

"Lydia…" said a faraway voice. Then it became louder, ringing inside of her head. "LYDIA!"

Lydia screamed, and she struggled in the darkness. Hot hands were shaking her, holding her by the shoulders. She sobbed in relief when she saw Jackson looming overhead, worry etched across his face.

"Lydia, what's wrong?" Jackson asked, pulling her into a hug. Lydia pressed her face into his bare chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

The night before came rushing back, overpowering her terrifying nightmare. Mr. and Mrs. Whittmore were out for the weekend, and Jackson had asked her over for one of their "special" sleepovers. Derek had made Jackson get full control of his newfound strength before allowing him to see anyone outside of their werewolf training group. Jackson had used his first opportunity after being granted such freedom to have the best reunion sex with Lydia. She was pleased that he thought of her first; she had missed him terribly.

But even now, Peter was trying to throw a wrench in her happiness.

She continued to cry, her chest heaving uncontrollably against his still, blazing one. No, this was just a bad dream; Jackson was safe.

_Why, he'll be the most useful toy of my collection,_ Peter had said, and Lydia shuddered at the memory. _The former kanima, and now such a handsome, powerful werewolf. I need him, as I need you and Stiles._


	3. Blood on the Tiles

In the morning, they quickly reassembled the room; making up Jackson's bed and smoothing out the once-crisp linen as much as they could.

Jackson's parents weren't supposed to know that their son was still alive.

It wasn't keeping this secret from the Whittemore couple that made Lydia guilty. It was showing how weak she could when all of her usual defenses were down. She didn't want anyone to see her like this, especially Jackson.

Peter Hale was supposed to be a bad memory that she had tried to block out once she'd completed his resurrection spell. He promised her that the hallucinations would go away if she helped him.

_But this was a nightmare,_ Lydia reminded herself.

They snuck out the front door with Jackson turning on the security system before locking the entrance. Lydia had been reckless by agreeing to stay over at his house. One of his neighbours might have recognized the extravagant Porsche; it wasn't exactly a common ride in Beacon Hills. But Jackson had insisted that there were multiple vehicles in the driveway that could help camouflage the appearance of an extra one.

She hoped that having Jackson to herself for the night would've been worth the risk.

Lydia knew what getting caught would mean: a trip to the station, being asked a billion questions about Jackson and where he's been and how he was still alive. The Whittemores were mortified when Jackson's supposedly dead body ended up going missing from the hospital. How much horrified would they get if they discovered that their son was miraculously revived from the dead, but never bothered to show up at home?

But whose reaction that Lydia worried about the most was Danny's. He'd been in an emotional slump ever since that fateful game, kicking himself for what happened. Everyone around him insisted that there was nothing it could've done; it had all happened so fast.

"But he told me to stay away from him during the game," he'd muttered despairingly. "'Don't pass to me'! Maybe he was trying to tell me something, but I didn't figure it out in time."

Jackson had tried to convince Derek to let Danny in on the secret. Lydia knew that most of his pleading for his best friend was because the two boys shared such a deep bond, a wonderful bromance. But Lydia also saw, from a logical standpoint, how Danny could be useful to Derek and his pathetically small pack.

Danny was smart and had a way with computers that most guys their age didn't. He was extremely likable and popular, and had this easygoing way with everyone around him. Everyone loved Danny, and if any of the werewolves ever got into trouble (it was inevitable that they would), Danny would be the perfect candidate to defend them. He had this effect on people; softening their rough exteriors and helped them unleash their hidden compassion and kindness. Lydia had always noticed that Jackson was more reserved with his anger whenever he was around the guy.

Derek didn't buy it. "It's enough trouble already with Stiles and your girlfriend knowing about us," Derek had growled at Jackson when he'd asked for Danny. Lydia had noticed that he'd conveniently left Allison out of the list.

Derek didn't consider her to be a human inconvenience. In his eyes, she was a roadblock in an Argent hunter's flesh.

* * *

Stiles has this absolutely dumbfounded look on his face when Lydia sits across from him at lunch. He looks around, as if he wasn't sure that the zombie apocalypse had started or not. Lydia rolls her eyes; was it so otherworldly for a girl to sit at his table?

_Come on Stiles,_ Lydia thought, _you're not that pathetic, are you?_

"Lydia!" he stammers. "You got lost? Wait, what's going on? Something wrong?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Really honey? How long have we been hanging out now? What, you don't want to be seen with the crazy girl in public?"

"No, that's not what I meant," babbled Stiles, and Lydia smiled at how flushed and embarrassed he looked. "Jesus, I don't know. I just assumed that you wanted to keep our conversations out of… the school scene…?"

Now that just wasn't a fair assumption at all. Yes, Lydia had been more discreet with her socialization with anyone associated with the pack at school; it was overwhelming at times with this big of a secret. She was trying to get back into a regular routine that didn't involve full moons and wandering naked through the forest for days on end. And Stiles reminded her of that, and—

Maybe it _was_ a fair assumption after all.

She didn't know why she kept her distance from Stiles at school. She had more than enough reason to avoid Allison. Miss Psycho Hunter was stupid enough to try and kill Jackson, after all. With Allison, she didn't feel charitable at the moment. She felt the same way about Scott.

Maybe that's why; Stiles was always with Scott at school. He seemed to cling to the Beta-Omega idiot like he was afraid he was going to lose him.

Like he was afraid that he would lose Scott to Allison Argent.

"Well, here I am," she pouted, tossing her wave of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. "I see that _Scott_ isn't here." She added a venomous tone to McCall's name; just to show the contempt she held him and his lady friend.

She felt more brave and cocky in the daylight. What a contrast to last night's events.

"He's been trying to talk to You-Know-Who," Stiles muttered. His hand absentmindedly rolled a granny smith across the table.

Lydia's lip curled in approval with the reference. "He should just let her go."

"But I know he won't," Stiles murmured sadly. Yep, definitely some buddy-clingy issues there. "He thinks she'll change and help us out, you know?"

"I highly doubt it," Lydia huffed stubbornly.

Stiles laughed wearily. "He's holding out for her chance at redemption, or whatever. Me? I'm doing what I usually do."

"And what's that?"

"Being the idiot friend that I am and support his hopeless cause."

* * *

Stiles hated being ditched by Scott like this. It hurt him that his presence wasn't enough to satisfy his best friend. _No, it's just a stupid girl problem,_ he kept telling himself. _We've been friends for years, ten times longer than he'd known Allison._

_But he never asked you about your face,_ sneered a dark voice in his head. Stiles froze, his eyes wide. Lydia was across the table, frowning at his sudden seize-up.

The cafeteria was empty now, devoid of the regular student body, save for Lydia, who was frozen in her seat. The silence was overwhelming, and Stiles blinked rapidly. Lydia was like a wax figurine in front of him. Her eyes didn't move, and there were no subtle twitching of a pulse in her arms.

Stiles abandoned his apple as he sprung up from his bench, nearly falling over it as he tried to move away. Did he fall asleep, and was having a nightmare? Oh God, this couldn't be a hallucination, could it?

_Don't scream,_ he commanded himself. Whatever you do, don't scream. _People will think you're going insane if you do._

"It's rather unfortunate that we have to reunite like this."

He spun around, his heart dropping into his stomach. "You gotta be fucking kidd—"

"Watch your language, sweetheart," smiled Peter, tsking softly. "It's rude to swear in a school setting." He was standing about ten feet from Stiles in his attire from the winter dance.

"Fuck off."

Jesus, it really was him. No, this was a dream. A horrific, pulse-pounding nightmare sequence. Why was he seeing Peter fucking Hale at school?!

After the events with Gerard and the kanima in the warehouse, Derek had begrudgingly told them that his uncle was back from the dead, and that Lydia had helped him achieve it. Stiles didn't blame her for going through with it, especially now, when he was going crazy himself.

"How is this happening?" Stiles demanded, hands trembling at his sides. Peter smiled, like he had this huge secret that he was holding back.

"I could give you a hint," Peter grinned arrogantly. "But that would take out all of the fun. It'll be more satisfying if you can figure the riddle out for yourself, wouldn't it Stiles?"

The former Alpha was approaching him slowly, like a predator cornering his prey, knowing that he would be able to escape.

Stiles quickly looked over at Lydia, who was still frozen in position. Was she part of the illusion? Could Peter hurt her? Stiles didn't want her to catch the wolf's attention, and right now, Peter seemed pretty intent on stalking Stiles down.

"So I'm guessing that this is all happening in my head, then?" he said nervously, stepping back as Peter got closer. He stumbled around the table, never letting Lydia out of his sight.

"Don't worry about Lydia," Peter sneered, his eyes still trained on Stiles. "It's you I want to talk to."

"Great, that makes me feel loads better," Stiles spouted sarcastically.

"I always did enjoy your snark, darling."

"You wanna stop flirting and just get to the part where you tell me what you want?" He was so focused on watching Lydia that Stiles suddenly found himself crashing into a wall. Luckily, they were near the doors. Stiles raced over to them, pushing his body up against it. It wouldn't budge.

"Where were you planning to go, exactly?" Peter chuckled. Stiles panicked, pushing himself off of the door to propel himself—

—Straight into Peter's arms.

How did he get there so—oh right, special werewolf powers. Stiles tried to push back, to get away, but Peter just sighed by the minor annoyance and pulled him into a tight embrace. His arms snaked around the teen as Stiles' body twisted in futile resistance. At least his torso was facing away from Peter's. But now he couldn't see the expressions on the older man's face, which meant he'd have to go by his tone of voice for emotions.

Peter's claws extended from his fingertips, and one of them stroked Stiles' cheek in mock affection. His other hand dug painfully into Stiles' side, and he hissed in pain. He felt something warm and wet spread across, and Stiles realized that it was blood welling up from his new, gaping wounds.

He felt a sudden weight on his right shoulder, then realized that Peter's chin was now resting there. "You haven't fancied a guess as to why I'm here?"

"It's hard to come up with anything when I'm going out of my fucking mind," Stiles gasped, biting his lip as Peter's fingertip drew out a line of blood on his face. The cut stung as pebbles of blood leaked from it and streamed down his face.

"Stiles," growled Peter impatiently, and Stiles suddenly found himself being slammed head-first into a nearby table. Peter's hand was holding his head down as he stood over him.

Stiles' mind flashed to the night in the underground parking garage. Peter had done the same thing when Stiles wasn't being helpful, only it was his Jeep that time around.

"Stiles, be intelligent about this," Peter said. He suddenly released Stiles, causing the teen to fall onto the floor. Stunned, Stiles tried to get back onto his feet when Peter suddenly pounced onto him, knocking him flat on his back. Peter grabbed Stiles' wrists, slamming them onto the cold tiles as he sat on Stiles' stomach, his knees pressed tightly as Stiles' bleeding sides. "Don't struggle," he warned, eyes narrowing. He leaned in close, and Stiles flinched when their faces were a breadth apart from touching. "You wouldn't want dear Lydia to suffer because of your stupidity, now would you?"

Peter pulled back, and looked over his shoulder. Lydia was now sitting at the table next to them; her hands nestled limply in her lap as she stared straight ahead. She didn't seem to notice Stiles and Peter on the floor in front of her.

Stiles squirmed, which made Peter roll his eyes. His head nodded lazily in Lydia's direction, and Stiles watched in horror as blood gushed up from her tear ducts and streamed down her stark white face. Deep cuts started to form on her neck and arms, as if an invisible knife was slicing through the flesh and veins. Dark blood poured from her open wounds, dripping down her body at a rapid pace, staining her pink blouse and short brown skirt. The blood made its way down the table and onto the floor, pooling close to Stiles' head.

"Stop," he whispered. But the blood flow refused to cease. Peter was smiling in satisfaction as the blood began to make its way around both him and Stiles, etching out a liquid circle in a wide circumference. The metallic stench from it was overwhelming.

"Jesus, what's wrong with you?!" Stiles screamed. Shit, he didn't mean to scream like that. "For the love of God, stop doing that to her!"

"Would you prefer to take her place?" Peter tsked, giving Stiles a sickly, patronizing look. But he carefully let go of Stiles' left wrist, and raised his fingers. The blood was gone, and Lydia was back to her cut-free, unblemished self. "Even now when you've lost, you're still thinking about her wellbeing."

"Keep her out of this," Stiles said angrily. "Do whatever you want with me, just leave her alone. She doesn't need this."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Please Stiles, she's been involved for a long time now. Just because she's completed one task, doesn't mean I won't assign more to her."

"What are you talking about?" Stiles hissed.

"That's a secret," Peter whispered, pressing a long finger to Stiles' lips. "But don't worry; I won't be leaving you out of this. You both have a part to play."

Stiles had enough of this. With his now-free arm, he grabbed a fistful of Peter's shirt, and shoved him back. Peter just merely leapt back to his feet, graceful as a cat. Stiles shuffled backwards with the assistance of his elbows, biting his lip in pain. His blood streaked across the white flooring. Stiles leapt to his feet, wincing as he clutched his side. Peter watched him carefully.

"I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart," said Peter. Stiles was frozen in place—either out of legitimate fear or Peter somehow having control over his body—as the former Alpha approached him. "I don't know why you're making this much more difficult than it has to be."

"I'm not gonna make it easy for you to get your way," Stiles grimaced. His hands were covered his own blood, and for some reason the wound refused to staunch itself and cease the flow. "You can just forget about that, alright?"

Peter's long arms reached out and cupped Stiles' face, painfully forcing him to look up at Peter. "Am I really going to have to threaten your loved ones? Please Stiles, I wanted to keep this simple."

His hands made their way down to Stiles' neck, where he caressed it gently before tightening his grip. Stiles gasped as he tried to suck it extra air, but Peter was thorough with sealing off his lungs.

"When the time comes, both you and Lydia will help me get what I want," Peter whispered into his ear. "I may not be the Alpha, but I'm still dangerous. Don't make the mistake of trying to outsmart me."

Fangs extended from Peter's mouth, seconds before they latched onto Stiles' throat.

* * *

"Stiles?" Lydia said. One minute they were talking, and the next, Stiles had seized up, staring straight ahead. "Stiles?" she repeated, more demanding.

Panic fluttered in her chest. He wasn't responding. Lydia dashed around the table until she was at Stiles' side. "Stiles, snap out of it!"

It was like a slasher movie. Lydia gasped in horror as a long, deep cut formed onto Stiles' face from out of nowhere. Blood welled up and streamed down his face.

"Stiles?!"

Lydia swung her head around, bitterly astonished to see Scott dashing toward them. Allison was across the room, biting her lip in worry.

"Stiles, wake up!" Scott whispered frantically, shaking Stiles' shoulders. His best friend gasped, drawing in a long breath. Lydia sighed in relief.

Stiles blinked rapidly, staring at Scott, who was still grasping his shoulders. "Did I fall asleep?" he asked nervously. "I don't remember falling asleep!" He winced as he brought his hand to his cheek, smearing the blood. "Oh, you gotta be fucking kidd—"

Stiles' face turned stark white, his hands shaking as they reached for the side of his torso. Lydia looked down, and stared wide-eyed as something dark, warm, and metallic blossomed across Stiles' shirt. Stiles hissed in pain.

Scott's eyes widened in horror. "That's blood!"

"No shit Sherlock," gasped Stiles. He tried standing up, but collapsed sideways. Scott held onto him, pulling him upright. Someone screamed as Stiles' blood poured from his wound and dripped onto the cafeteria tiles.

"What happened?" said a familiar voice in Lydia's ear. Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she turned to face Allison.

"I have no clue," Lydia hissed. "But whoever's screaming is going to snag us some unwanted attention."

Scott, meanwhile, had looped one of Stiles' arms across his shoulders. "I need to get him out of here," he whispered to the girls. "I'm gonna bring him to Deaton. Try to stop anyone from following us."

"Just going to leave us with this mess, then?" Lydia snapped, but Allison nodded understandably. Lydia scanned the room, panic rising in her chest. On her face she was able to comprise it into a calm slate. She spotted Danny from across the room, and she immediately felt guilty.

No doubt that he was thinking of the fatal wound that "killed" Jackson that night. To Danny, it must look like Stiles was suffering from the same injury.

"Please help me," Allison quietly pleaded. Lydia glared at her, but quickly nodded. Hopefully Dr. Deaton would be able to help them figure this out.


	4. Splatter

The hallways were mostly empty—except for a few oblivious stragglers—as Stiles and Scott stumbled their way out of the cafeteria. Scott had Stiles' bleeding side pressed against his own, in a last-ditch effort to staunch the dark flow.

Stiles was as white as a sheet, and he felt like he was going to black out at any moment. Hallucinations weren't supposed to cause real-time, physical pain, were they?

"Scott," Stiles slurred, gritting his teeth from the immense pain. When Scott refused to stop, Stiles practically shouted, "Scott! Jesus, just stop for a moment, OK?"

Scott looked over at his best friend; they were practically glued together from the great surge of blood pouring from Stiles. "Stiles," Scott said urgently, "We got to get you out of here."

"I know," Stiles muttered, gasping for breath. "But I'm gonna bleed out in my Jeep if we don't stop the bleeding now."

Scott nodded, and then repeated the action more fiercely. The bathroom was just down the hall. Stiles felt Scott readjust his hold on him before dragging him through the door. Great drops of blood splattered onto the school's tiles, but Stiles silently elected to ignore it at the moment. Luckily, no one was in the stalls, so Scott decided to lock the bathroom door to ensure their continued privacy.

He released Stiles, surprisingly gentle as he lowered him onto the floor. Stiles hissed as his blood-soaked shirt clung to Scott's, peeling harshly from his wound before reluctantly separating, hanging off of his side.

"Oh my God, this stings," Stiles groaned, watching as Scott lifted up Stiles' shirt. He looked like a sad puppy as he inspected the gaping wounds, and Stiles couldn't help smiling at that.

"What's so funny?" Scott asked, seeing Stiles' face. But Stiles just shook his head.

"You look concerned, that's all."

"I'm always concerned, Stiles."

Stiles cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, making Scott frown confusedly. "Well, good," Stiles finally said, his breathing shallow. He didn't want to get into an unnecessary argument with Scott, especially when he was bleeding out on the floor. "Okay, I'm dying here buddy."

Scott started, blinking rapidly as he looked around for some sort of bandage. "Well," Scott said, sighing in mock defeat. "Toilet paper's out of the question."

"If only we had some Bounty, then—Scott, what are doing?"

It was at that moment that Scott pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his muscular, toned-up torso.

"Now's not the time to give me a strip tease, Scott," Stiles teased, clutching his side. Dammit, shouldn't the wound be _clotting_ by now?

Scott snorted. "Very funny," he said drily, tearing the shirt into wide strips. He bent over Stiles, wrapping the makeshift bandage around Stiles' ribcage. Even though he didn't have heightened senses, Stiles could practically hear Scott's rapid heartbeat.

"Okay, this should hold," Scott said, pulling back to inspect his handiwork. Stiles looked down, and his heart sank as the once-white shirt was already soaked through in scarlet.

"You did your best, Ada Wong," Stiles grimaced. His head felt immensely light. His vision was hazy, and Stiles blinked as he tried to correct it.

"Scott," he said weakly. "We should, uh, get our asses into gear."

Scott nodded, pulling Stiles up from the ground. "Definitely. I'll drive." He held out his hand, and Stiles shakily placed his keys in them.

"Just don't crash her," Stiles grinned. His face suddenly twisted with pain. "FUUUCK! Oh God_, Oh God_—!"

A searing, unimaginable pain was coming from the left side of his throat. Stiles saw Scott's eyes turned that wolfish gold and widen in horror as what seemed like an invisible pair of teeth clamped down and tore away at the flesh. Fresh, dark blood bubbled up from the wound, pouring down the length of his neck as it made a trail down Stiles' back and torso

"Stiles!" Scott shouted desperately. "Stiles, buddy, stay with me!"

Someone was knocking fiercely on the door. "Stiles! Scott!" said the voice on the other side. "Are you in there?!"

That was the last thing Stiles heard before darkness took over him.

* * *

They'd managed to shush that screaming attention-seeker from before. Lydia rolled her eyes in annoyance as Allison attempted to calm down the girl, who said that she "could've sworn that I saw blood!" Some teachers were called in, demanding an explanation for the upset girl and the blood trail leading out of the cafeteria. Lydia merely gave them her best, 'how-should-I-know?' pouting lips, hoping that would silence them.

What she wasn't prepared for was Danny approaching her.

"What's going on?" he asked, pulling Lydia to the side. "And don't try to lie to me, Lyd," he added, seeing her open her mouth in protest. "Nobody's blind enough to miss all of that red!"

"Danny," Lydia began, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. She stood up on tiptoes and leaned in close to his ear. "Don't make a scene. We don't need any more attention."

"Lydia, you can't make me forget what I just saw," Danny whispered angrily. "It can't be a coincidence. Whatever that wound was, it looks just like Ja—"

Danny closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Lydia knew what name hung on his tongue, and that grip of guilt—of keeping Danny out of the loop—tightened in her stomach. But she shoved it back, voting to deal with it later.

Instead, she hoped that Scott could get to Stiles to Deaton before—before what? Before he bled to death?

"I don't know what happened," Lydia said truthfully, and saw Danny's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Seriously, I don't! But right now, I need you to be calm, alright?"

"Lydia…"

Danny began to protest, but Lydia shook her head. "Not now, Danny," she said, loosening her grip on him before striding toward the cafeteria doors.

She heard them reopen behind her two seconds later, and Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Allison joined her. "Lydia, what's going on?" Allison asked. Lydia ignored her, her eyes following the droplets of blood on the floor. She increased her pace, and the trail of blood curved toward one of the doors before stopping in a sloppy mess of blood.

Lydia rapt her knuckles on the bathroom door and repeated the action more rapidly when she didn't get a response. "Stiles! Scott! Are you in there?!" She tried pushing; the door was locked from the inside.

Of course she knew they were in there. The blood indicated that they never evacuated their hiding spot; otherwise, there'd be a second trail for her to follow. Unless Scott managed to perform some miraculous first-aid.

Knowing that idiot, he probably didn't.

Allison stood nervously next to Lydia, her arms wrapped around her as she hugged herself. "Scott?" she breathed out. "Scott, it's us. Let us in, please?"

Lydia heard a click from the other side, and she moved back as the door opened. Scott was shirtless, and Lydia was about to make a retort about it when she saw that his hands were sopping wet with blood. She shoved past him, and her heart nearly stopped.

Blood was smeared thickly across the floor tiles with Stiles in the center of it. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his middle, but it was hard to tell its original color; it stank of coppery blood. Lydia raced over to his side, nearly slipping on the tacky, dark substance as she knelt next to him. Stiles' eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and slow. Lydia immediately noticed the wretched wound on his throat, and automatically pressed her hand against it. She looked around; scanning the walls for a paper towel dispenser.

Just her luck; it had to be one of those eco-friendly air dryers in this bathroom instead.

She felt the wound underneath her freshly-manicured nails. It had a shredded, wild feel about it, as if he'd been attacked by—

"What's the glare for?" Scott asked, walking cautiously toward her and Stiles. Allison timidly followed him in, as if unsure if she was invited.

"How did _this_ one happen?!" Lydia hissed at him, gesturing at Stiles' neck. "You'd better not have did some freaky 'wolfing out' because of all the blood and—"

"Lydia, I'm not a fucking vampire, alright?" Scott growled defensively. "I was patching him up, and then it literally just came out of nowhere!"

"So is that why you decided to take a detour in here?!"

"Stiles asked me to, okay?"

Lydia reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone. "What are you doing?!" Scott yelled, just as she was about to dial.

"Either get him to Deaton, or I'm calling the ambulance!"

"Okay, okay!" Scott said in defeat. Lydia stepped back reluctantly as Scott pulled Stiles from the ground, wrapping one of Stiles' arms around Scott's neck. Blood continued to pour from Stiles' neck, and Lydia was suddenly very aware of how much it was slowly drying on her hands.

"He'll get him to Deaton," Allison reassured her, and Lydia blinked. She'd forgotten that the girl was still there. It just goes to show how much she actually "contributed" to the prevention of the massive carnage happening before their eyes.

Lydia brushed past her, heading back into the hallway. She headed across the hall to their washroom, immediately turning on the cold tap at the sink. She looked down at the blood staining her skin. The memory of how pale and lifeless her friend looked was seared into her brain.

If Scott let him die, then God have mercy when he tracks his Beta ass down.


	5. Concoction

Blinking hastily, Stiles squinted his eyes, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. He was surrounded by white walls that pressed in on him. He soon realized that he was in a sterile hallway, smelling strongly of disinfectant and starched linens.

He blinked again, and doors appeared on either side of him, numbered with cheap brass labels. _301, 303, 305…_

He was at the hospital. Stiles suddenly looked down, finding himself dressed in dull grey scrubs. He was barefoot, which explained why his feet felt so damn cold. He looked around, hoping to find someone else in her with him. The silence was dominating, and an involuntary shiver raced down his spine.

Something warm and thick splattered down onto his head, making him flinch. Another drop hit his cheek this time, and Stiles warily touched his face before pulling back his hand. It was blood.

Of course it was, he thought as he rolled his eyes. He was in a deserted hospital, and—here he looked up to confirm his suspicions—there was blood dripping from the ceilings, staining it crimson. As Stiles stared at it, the patch of blood expanded, slowly making its way down from the ceiling to the wall. It left a streaking, bloodied mess as it maneuvered its way down onto the floor, just barely missing his foot.

"What the hell?" Stiles shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls as the blood made a tacky, messy trail down the hallway. It continued to grow, and instead of receding, it gushed up, pooling on the bright white floor as it bubbled over in a sickly spray. It obviously had a destination, and Stiles was suddenly burdened with a burning curiosity.

It couldn't hurt to see where it leads to, right?

This was all a hallucination anyway.

_That's what you thought about the last one,_ Stiles reminded himself. _Remember, this freaky-ass day dreams are deadly. If you see anything bearing claws and a sassy attitude,_ run.

Stiles swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly. When he reopened his eyes, the blood had already reached the end of the hall. His legs felt like lead as he trudged forward. Blood squelched uncomfortably underneath his bare feet, bubbling up in between his toes. His nostrils breathed in the heavily metallic scent as he walked further down the hallway.

The blood had seeped underneath a doorway, the last one on the left.

Room 315.

Christ, _no_.

Stiles' heart sank as he walked up to the door, his hand hovering over the knob. He inhaled quickly before his stuttering breath escaped him.

Fuck you Peter, or _whoever_ was tormenting him with this.

Finally, he turned the knob, and the door creaked open, fanning the blood out in a wide arc as Stiles pushed it farther in.

The room held the same machines: the heart monitor, the IV drip. It was the exact same set-up just before the doctors announced the time of death and had wheeled her away to the morgue.

But now it was a fucking massacre.

Bile rose up in the back of his throat as his eyes registered the splashes of blood across the walls. It reminded him of that one scene in _Scream 4_ when they'd found that dead girl after Ghostface had jumped out of her closet and slaughtered her.

The blood had forming a smearing circle around the bed, where there was a body lying limply on top. The exposed arms, legs and face were drenched in red, as was the white bed sheets. Stiles gagged, and pressed his hands against his mouth, trying not to vomit.

_Please, not her,_ Stiles pleaded, shaking as he stepped forward. _Not Mom, please…_

When he was at the bed's side he suddenly recognized the wilted, strawberry blonde curls that framed the corpse's face.

Lydia's still torso had been cracked open, her ribs erect and popping out of her chest with massive amounts of gore. Her big intestine had dribbled out, snaking its way to the floor. In her outstretched hand was her heart, still connected to her insides by congealing lines of blood and tendons. It was like someone was playing Operation in reverse.

Stiles practically collapsed to his knees, retching uncontrollably. Vomit splattered onto the floor, mingling with Lydia's blood. After several minutes, he found himself dry heaving, his limbs shaking like mad. It felt like an eternity before he reclaimed enough strength to stand up, his scrubs and hands sopping with the dark substance.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Stiles whipped around. Peter was leaning against the blood-soaked doorframe, his arms lazily folded across his chest. He smiled at Stiles, which unnerved him.

"So sorry I desecrated your art project with my stomach's excretion."

"So have such a lovely way with words."

Peter pushed himself off of the doorframe, his eyes watching Stiles hungrily. Stiles stepped back, nearly smacking his head into the bedframe as his bloodied feet slid on the floor. His fingers automatically grasped Lydia's limp wrist, and Stiles shuddered at how icy cold her skin felt. He forced himself to stare into her wide, lifeless eyes, now glassy from death.

_This is a dream. She's not dead. I'm just going insane again. I just lost a shit ton of blood, and now Scott's—_

"It could've ended up like this," Peter said, his voice suddenly close. Stiles barely had enough room to twist his body around to face the werewolf, who was leaning into his breathing space.

"Ya wanna back off for a moment?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Stop being so defensive, sweetheart."

"I was wondering when the pet names would kick in," Stiles said back, forcing himself not to flinch. "Though you might want to work on your delivery."

"Really, Stiles?" said Peter as he roughly pushed Stiles onto the bed. Stiles felt the back of the scrubs drench in blood, and he soon became uncomfortably aware that he was lying across Lydia's—_this isn't her, she's not dead_—stomach. The rancid smell of her innards threatened to make him vomit again.

Peter was leering over him, his hands on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles was suddenly aware of Peter's legs pressing in on his hips from either side.

"Is this gonna be a thing?" Stiles babbled, licking his lips. "You know, with these trippy illusions you're putting me in? Do you get off on invading my personal bubble and giving Lydia fatal, bodily harm?" Stiles tried to move, but Peter's face was just mere inches from him, giving him little space to wriggle out of this… compromising position.

Peter flashed his fangs at him, grinning maliciously. "I'll be more creative next time."

"Uh, yeah, no thanks," Stiles spat out, "I think we're through after this little session. Do you actually have a reason for invading my mind and causing me real-time harm? It'd be nice to see some decent motivation behind all this. Besides you having some weird fetish."

"What did I tell you before?"

"Excuse me?"

Peter's eyes flashed red—_he's not the Alpha anymore, this is your brain screwing with you_—as he repeated, "What did I tell you _before_, Stiles?"

Stiles swallowed, replaying back their previous encounter. "You need Lydia and me for something," he muttered. Fuck, he hated this. He hated this sense of powerlessness he felt whenever Peter was around. The scene on the lacrosse field always haunted him.

Peter smiled, and Stiles shuddered at the satisfied look of it. "Very good," he replied. "I knew I could count on you to pay attention to detail. And do you remember what else I said? What I would do if you refuse to cooperate?"

Stiles glared at him, but Peter must've seen the panic in his eyes. The former Alpha chuckled darkly, trailing a clawed finger over Stiles' wrist, directly above the pulse. "Beacon Hills doesn't need another family tragedy to add to their records, do they? Especially if it involved one of their leading authorities—"

"Go fuck yourself."

Peter gripped Stiles' wrist, adding pressure to it. "Don't press your luck," he growled. "You may be a valuable piece, but everyone else around you is expendable."

_…iles._

Stiles blinked. "What the hell?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Already?" he scoffed. He turned his attention back to the boy just beneath him. "When the time comes, you _will_ obey me. Don't get any ideas of trying to outsmart me. If you play your part, you and your loved ones will remain unharmed."

The hospital room was shimmering away in dark, thick tendrils. Stiles closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, Peter was gone. He suddenly found it easier to breathe.

_STILES!_

* * *

"Stiles, wake up!"

Scott was looming over him when Stiles blinked. He looked like he'd just witnessed someone punching a puppy or something. _My brain was oddly specific about that,_ Stiles thought as he groggily propped himself on his elbows. Scott—now miraculously clad in a new shirt—breathed a huge sigh of relief, and sank back down into his chair.

It was then that Stiles recognized his surroundings. They were in the examination room at the animal clinic, with Stiles himself lying on the operating table. He winced as a stabbing pain resounded from his neck and side. Scott jumped up from his seat, gripping Stiles arm as he tried to sit up.

"How long was I out?" he asked, tendering touching his neck. Clean white gauze had been taped there, and Stiles was surprised when his fingers came back unsullied by blood. He stared at them, unable to believe it.

Scott shrugged, watching his friend attentively. "It's seven now," he replied slowly.

"So I've been out of it for almost seven hours now?" Stiles said. He groaned with a sudden realization. "Has my Dad called?"

Scott held up Stiles' phone. "I picked up on his tenth try," he admitted. "I told him that you were at my house. Then he asked why you didn't have your phone on you." He gave Stiles a long look. "I don't think he's buying it anymore."

"He's the sheriff, what did you expect?" said Stiles. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his head. "He's been paranoid ever since our winning game, y'know? He's been trying to hide it, but he's not very subtle when he asks me the exact times I'm coming home or if I'm going to be alone after practice."

"He's just worried."

"I know," Stiles muttered sadly. _I hate making him worry like this. What kind of shitty son does this to their father?_

"The school called my mom when we missed our afternoon classes," Scott added. "When I told her it was werewolf business, she backed off."

"For now," Stiles grinned weakly, "She's gonna yell your ass off when you get home."

Pain shot up in Stiles' side, making him hiss. He clutched at the bandages, which were now dotted with red. "We got any idea how this happened?" he asked, looking at Scott.

"Deaton has a theory."

"I'd love to hear it right about now, buddy," said Stiles. He rotated his body carefully, swinging his legs over the edge of the operating table. He lowered himself down as stinging pain flared up in his body. "And it'd be great to know how he stopped the bleeding."

"It was simply a matter of removing these from your Jeep."

Scott and Stiles' heads turned in unison as Deaton entered the room. In his gloved hand was what looked like a tiny burlap pouch. He calmly approached the two boys, eyes unblinking as he held up the pouch for them to inspect.

Scott breathed in the faint scent. "I don't recognize any of it," he admitted.

"That wouldn't surprise me," Deaton replied as he untied the pouch's strings. He reached in with his thumb and forefinger, and withdrew it. What looked like ground up herbs was pinched between his fingertips. "These are very rare, and unnatural. These herbs are the results of generations' worth of splicing and recreating hybrid plants."

"So what was someone's little garden project doing in my Jeep?" Stiles asked.

Deaton looked at him intensely. "This concoction is specifically used in causing hallucinations within its intended victims."

"Hallucinations?" Scott repeated, worry creasing his brow. Stiles, meanwhile, was suddenly conscious of the way that Deaton was staring at him, like he already knew the answer.

"But there's more to the equation," Deaton continued as he dropped the herbs back into the pouch. He placed it on the side of the operating table. "It needs a spell, to make a connection between the caster and their victim. A _personal_ connection helps influence the strength of the spell, therefore making it effective."

"Personal connection?" Scott said, looking confused now. "What are you talking about?"

Sometimes Stiles wanted to roll his eyes at how slow his buddy took on the update. "It means that someone wants to drive me out of my fucking mind, dumbass!"

Scott stared at Stiles, the gears finally clicking into place. "So at school today, with the injuries coming out of nowhere…?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah. That magic bag right there is the cause of it." He looked at Deaton for confirmation, who nodded curtly.

So he wasn't going insane. Some whack job was just trying to rip him to shreds with terrifying visions. Fantastic.

"So you were seeing things too?" Scott asked. Stiles noticed how his friend's eyes glowed temporarily, flaring with anger and justice.

Stiles nodded. "Pretty much," he replied, tenderly touching his throat. "I got the exact same injuries in my hallucinations too." He frowned. "But wait," he added, looking at Deaton. "Does this 'strength of the spell' also include transferring the injuries back to real-time?"

"You're the proof of that theory, Stilinski," Deaton nodded.

It was at that moment that Stiles' phone rang. He snatched it up, answering it on the second. "Lydia?" he said, sounding surprised as Lydia's voice spilled out a _"Hello?"_ from the other end.


End file.
